CHAPTER XLV
Wherein a Poet burns his Verse to keep his Feet Warm
In the waning of a bleak March day, Betty walked briskly home to her rooms. It was the eve of her marriage. Noll and she were to go to Paris straight from the ceremony. Betty had the tickets for the journey in her pocket. Horace had secured them lodgings.
When the girl had entered the house, mounting the stairs to her attic, she felt a pang. She was going to a glorious life, and leaving the old home to increasing dinginess—it would become shabbier and more shabby; whilst she—stepped it blithely to the seven heavens.
And the little faded Miss Flora! Who was to tend her?...
The mirth went out of her heart.
Someone must always suffer.
She stopped at the door, and knocked.